Why do you insist on asking me my name?
No, my name is not John. Or Brad. Or Jack.
It has more than the limit of 4 characters you have deemed necessary for a name.
Yet you insist.
You whip out that bold marker, and glare into my brown uncaffeinated eyes, giving me just that tiny little glimmer of hope that perhaps, just perhaps, this time, it will all be different.
But no.
I watch, with heart drenching sadness, as you employ a variety of compression algorithms on my name and note down a combination of letters that vaguely resemble the names of Hawaiian towns.
And this is not where you stop.
You decide, with absolute confidence in your ear to letter skills, to pass on the limerick of letters you christened me with to your co-barista for performing the ritual of calling out my name.
With a gusto, your partner in crime trumpets out “BHRKAAA” and looks at me expectantly.
Sheepishly, I accept my drink, and I think, perhaps, tomorrow will be better.
Please make tomorrow better?
Sincerely,
@fdgt
